He was, after all, the Head of the Auror Office. Scrimgeour's control over his expression was excellent—no one would have guessed he was silently enduring searing pain… except for the occasional twitch in his face that gave him away.
Harold thought he and Snape might have something in common—though he wasn't sure if they'd ever be willing to exchange tips.
Scrimgeour was still pretending nothing was wrong, and Harold didn't call him out. He just looked innocently at Dumbledore, as if he knew nothing.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, you wanted to see me? I've got class soon."
"It was Mr. Scrimgeour who asked for you," Dumbledore replied.
"Oh, right—almost forgot… Let me introduce you. Harold, this is Rufus Scrimgeour," he said, gesturing toward the man. "Head of the Auror Office at the Ministry of Magic."
"And Rufus, this is Harold Ollivander—a very gifted student."
"Nice to meet you," Harold said, greeting him first.
Scrimgeour merely gave a stiff nod.
"Rufus, what's wrong?" Dumbledore asked, blinking slowly. "Didn't you say you had many questions for him? Now that Harold is here, why the sudden silence?"
Scrimgeour's jaw twitched again.
Was it that he didn't want to speak?
No—he couldn't speak!
His entire body was tense, his teeth clenched tightly as he fought through the lingering agony. His jaw simply wouldn't loosen enough to form words.
"Sirius…" Scrimgeour sucked in a sharp breath, forced his mouth open, and blurted, "Incident."
"Sorry, I didn't catch that," Harold said, feigning confusion. "What incident?"
"Sirius…" Scrimgeour was forced to repeat.
"Huh? Sirius what?" Harold stepped closer. "Could you say it a little louder?"
"Sirius Black!" Scrimgeour's face flushed with fury.
"Oh, I get it—Sirius Black, right!" Harold finally responded, wearing a look of sudden realization just as Scrimgeour was about to explode.
From the corner, beneath the sweep of his silver beard, Dumbledore's lips curled almost imperceptibly.
He was quite sure Harold had done that on purpose. Scrimgeour's voice had been soft, but not inaudible.
Still, he made no move to intervene—he simply watched in silence.
Harold began to recount his encounter with Sirius Black. His version of events was mostly the same as what he had told in the hospital wing, but there was something odd.
As he spoke, Harold kept brushing against a nearby metal rack.
It was made of iron, and every bump or nudge made a distinct clang. Each time it did, Scrimgeour flinched slightly, brow furrowing.
By the time Harold finished, Scrimgeour's face was ghostly pale, and cold sweat was dripping from his forehead.
"Oh?" Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.
He had a hunch that Scrimgeour's condition had something to do with Harold—specifically, those taps on the metal rack.
Dumbledore suddenly recalled the Thunderbird.
An old friend had once told him that after being pecked by one, even years later, the wound would still ache at the sound of thunder.
Maybe this was something similar.
"Harold," Dumbledore said at last, "Rufus came today to deliver your Galleon reward—remember? You provided a very helpful lead."
"Of course I remember." Harold froze mid-step and refrained from "accidentally" bumping the rack again.
"I just assumed it didn't count anymore since I hadn't heard anything."
"Well, things take time to verify. But here he is," Dumbledore said with a smile, turning to Scrimgeour again. "Oh Rufus, you really should get some rest. You don't look well. Why not stay at Hogwarts? I could arrange a guest room for you."
"No… no need," Scrimgeour said, his voice trembling slightly. He pulled a pouch from his robes and placed it on the desk. "This is… the reward."
Harold picked up the pouch—it was much lighter than expected. He peeked inside. It was filled with shiny gold Galleons.
"Only a hundred?" Harold looked up. "Didn't the paper say the reward was a thousand for providing a lead?"
Scrimgeour opened his mouth as if to say something but hesitated. After a moment, he reluctantly pulled out a second pouch.
"That's only two hundred. Still not enough… Wait, not even two hundred—one hundred ninety-three…"
"Harold," Dumbledore cut in, "I think you're mistaken. The paper said the full reward goes to someone who provides a lead and helps capture Sirius Black.
"Your photo was important, yes, but it wasn't enough for the Ministry to apprehend him—understand?"
As he spoke, Dumbledore gave Harold a subtle wink.
Harold caught on immediately.
Fair enough. Scrimgeour had just delivered nearly two hundred Galleons. And he was, after all, the Head of the Auror Office.
"Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Scrimgeour." Harold stuffed the Galleons into his pocket and said sincerely, "Are you sure you don't want to rest for a while? There's an empty bed in my dormitory."
Scrimgeour said nothing.
Of course, Harold was only being polite. After that, he turned and left the headmaster's office.
Neither Dumbledore nor Scrimgeour stopped him.
Soon, Harold stepped off the spiral staircase and paused to glance back down the corridor.
He knew full well—Scrimgeour hadn't come all the way to Hogwarts just to deliver a bag of Galleons. He had something else in mind.
But his plan had been thrown off before it even began—disrupted by an ill-advised attempt at Legilimency.
Harold had also been tapping that metal rack on purpose, though not for the reason Dumbledore thought.
It had nothing to do with the backlash from Occlumency. The sound of metal clanging was just a distraction—to mask another sound.
As Harold walked the halls, he found them empty.
He had left class early, and lessons were still in session. Dıscover more novels at NovєlFіre.net
But he didn't intend to return to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Instead, he waited near the eighth floor.
A few minutes later, Scrimgeour left the headmaster's office. He looked tense and walked briskly down the stairs.
But when he passed a suit of armor on the second floor, he stopped and, for no apparent reason, tapped his finger against it.
The crisp sound echoed through the empty castle.
"No reaction. Guess I imagined it," Scrimgeour muttered and continued down the stairs.
But just then, something caught his attention.
"Who's there?" Scrimgeour suddenly spun around, wand in hand, aiming directly at the third-floor railing… where a black cat sat?
The cat let out a startled meow and darted away.
"Just a cat," Scrimgeour muttered, putting his wand away and rubbing his forehead.
He really shouldn't have used Legilimency on that Ollivander—the backlash had been brutal.
If it had just been pain, that was one thing. Compared to the actual Cruciatus Curse, he could handle it. But the way it messed with his perception—that was dangerous.
Just now, he'd felt a sudden, inexplicable sense of being watched… and the only thing around was a cat. It couldn't possibly have been the one watching him, right?
"I never should've agreed to come here for Fudge," Scrimgeour muttered bitterly, descending the stairs and exiting Hogwarts Castle in a huff.